The Price of Deception
by IcyWaters
Summary: Jim Gordon pinned Harvey Dent's crimes on Batman. For eight years, the deception ate away at his family, until the day he always dreaded finally arrived. Barbara was leaving and taking the kids.


Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the creations of Bob Kane and belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a fan. I don't own them.

Author's Note: This story takes place between _The Dark Knight_ and _The Dark Knight Rises_. It's inspired by the line in _Rises_ about Jim's family, "She left him and took the kids to Cleveland."

Special thanks to Immertreu and Ida Mirei for their feedback and encouragement.

* * *

**The Price of Deception**

by  
IcyWaters

"I can't do this anymore."

The hoarse whisper sent a cold shiver tracing along his spine.

James Gordon stood in the doorway of their room – her room, he mentally corrected. It ceased being theirs ten months ago when he began sleeping on the couch every night, the same time his clothes were relegated to the shelves in the laundry room. It became hers when his toiletries moved to the half bath next to the downstairs hall closet housing his suits and he started taking showers in the kids' bath.

Who was he kidding? It stopped being _their_ room eight years ago.

His eyes focused on the two suitcases lying open on top of the mattress. Barbara moved back and forth between the bed and dresser, pulling garments from the drawers and placing them inside the luggage. She never raised her head to look at the estranged husband she shared a house with. For the past three years, the scene played out like clockwork, but this time something was different.

This time, Jim realized, she wasn't coming back.

* * *

As the first anniversary of Harvey Dent's death neared, Mayor Anthony Garcia upped his crusade to honor the fallen hero. Poll numbers showed overwhelming support for the murdered crusader. Garcia, always in election mode, vowed to make his constituents happy.

Most of his constituents, anyway.

Following another long day of meetings with city officials in the morning and police business stretching late into the evening, Commissioner Gordon leaned back in his chair. The familiar squeak brought a rare hint of a smile to his lips. With a heavy sigh, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was getting too old to be burning the candle at both ends.

Jim tugged at his shirt collar, the room growing stuffy. The air conditioning unit in the MCU building was on the fritz again, only blowing cold air when it wanted to. Right now, it didn't want to.

The fan in the corner of his office ruffled the mounds of paperwork covering his desk. No matter how hard he tried, it never seemed to go down. An abrupt urge to escape the bureaucracy reared forth. Without realizing it, he found himself climbing the stairs to the roof. Warm, humid air assailed his senses when he pushed the door open. A breezed helped to cut the heat, cooling his sticky skin.

Shards of glass crunched under his shoes. Gordon ran a hand over the frame of the broken spotlight, the metal still radiating heat absorbed in the afternoon sun. His colleagues in the precinct jokingly referred to it as the bat signal when it used to illuminate the dark sky, calling out to Gotham's enigmatic protector. Gordon moved to the building's edge, leaned on the cool concrete and stared out at the lights of the city.

"Where are you?"

Reported sightings of the Bat still crossed his desk from time to time, but Gordon knew they weren't of his partner. His partner abandoned him, abandoned their city. Batman sacrificed himself… and for what?

Salvatore Maroni disappeared the same day Gotham General blew up, which meant he was probably at the bottom of a river. His smashed car was discovered a few days later with the driver shot dead. Some claimed the Batman murdered the mob boss during his killing spree; others suspected Maroni perished at the hands of his own men.

The truth didn't really matter. Violence erupted and the morgue filled with bodies as Maroni's underlings and competitors fought for control of the empire. Innocent people got caught in the crossfire. Gordon and his men were called to one blood-stained crime scene after another.

When Mike Engel began poking his nose into the truth, refusing to believe the man who saved his life killed all those people, Gordon's heart skipped a beat. He considered leaking information to the reporter to clear the masked man's name, but his vow to his partner won out. Jim Gordon endured the pain.

Honking horns from the street below shook him from his reverie. He glanced at his wristwatch. The press release would be issued first thing in the morning. He needed to get home. Barbara deserved to hear it from him and not a newscast.

Gordon returned to his office, grabbing his jacket and keys before proceeding to the parking garage. Spurts of traffic and a series of red lights slowed his progress on the roads. Pulling the car to a stop in front of his house, he noticed how dim the exterior appeared. The left porch light was burned out. He made a mental note to replace the bulb tomorrow.

Jim fumbled with the keys in his grasp and unlocked the door. He stepped into the shadowy foyer and secured the door in his wake. Soft, yellow light crept down the hallway from the fixture left on over the kitchen sink. He shoved the keys in his pocket and climbed the stairs, bypassing the dinner plate in the fridge much to the chagrin of his grumbling stomach.

Peeking into the first room, he found his son sprawled out on the bed sound asleep. He checked on his daughter next. Babs kicked the blanket to the floor, so Jim gathered it up, tucked it around his little girl and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

A flickering glow emanated from the partially closed door to the master bedroom. Barbara must have fallen asleep with the television on again. She hated the dark and hated being alone after that night.

The sobs coming from the pillow surprised him – and broke his heart. From the damp pillows that often greeted him, he knew Barbara usually cried herself to sleep. The guilt at not being there to comfort her ate away at Jim's soul.

Barbara raised her head. Tangled red hair clung to tear stained cheeks. "How could you?" Her bloodshot eyes bored into him. "How could you, Jim?"

The disgust in her accusation shocked him. She couldn't have known yet. Reading his mind, his wife turned up the volume on the TV. The commercial ended and a repeat of an earlier news report began playing. A photo of the deceased district attorney flashed on the screen with "GCN Exclusive" splashed across the bottom.

"Our own Summer Gleeson has learned Mayor Garcia will celebrate the life and work of Harvey Dent–"

Jim took the remote and turned the broadcast off. "It's what needs to be done."

"Damn it," she cursed and Jim took a step back. His Barbara rarely swore. It was a trait he found rather endearing after the vulgarity of the station. "That monster… that bastard tried to kill our son!"

"Barbara, I–"

He didn't get to finish. She grabbed his arm and dragged him down two flights of stairs to the basement. The dusty storage space took on the role of sparring room so the kids wouldn't hear mom and dad argue.

Barbara wrapped her arms protectively around her slender figure. "You're not here. You're never here, Jim. You don't know what we cope with. We go to therapists, but we can't talk about what happened, not really, because you flaunt him as a hero." She wiped her nose with the crinkled tissue clutched in her fingers. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that face… that half burned off face."

Jim reached out to pull her closer, but she swatted his hands away.

"We all suffer nightmares, did you know that? Babs tosses and turns, crying out in her sleep. Jimmy tries to deny it, but I can hear him down the hallway. He used to let me hold him, but now he draws away from me more and more. He would talk to you, Jim, he worships you, but you're never here."

The words – cold, harsh and true – stung worse than a slap to the face. Jim swallowed the lump in his throat. How many times did he come home at three or four in the morning, only to take a quick nap and be back at the MCU by seven or eight? How many times did he crash on the sofa in his office?

"I wake up in cold sweats, seeing the gun aimed at our son's head." Barbara's green eyes locked onto her husband. "Last week, Jimmy came running into our room when he heard me screaming." Her body started trembling. "It felt so real. This time, he… he pulled… the…" She collapsed to the floor, sobbing hysterically.

Jim darted across the room, dropped to his knees and held her tight. Barbara cried into his shoulder, soaking the shirt to his skin. "I have nightmares, too," he confessed, "the same ones."

When her cries quieted, she raised her head. "Then how can you go along with this? How do you expect us to live in a city that lauds the man who kidnapped and threatened our family?"

"I understand it's not easy, Barb, but we have to do it."

Barbara jerked away from him, her face as red as her hair. "That bastard aimed a gun at me, aimed a gun at our daughter and held a gun to our son's head! He had every intention of pulling the trigger!"

"You think I don't know that?" Jim took a deep breath, struggling to control his voice. He clambered to his feet and paced the cramped quarters. "I was there, remember? I begged for Jimmy's life." Tears stung the corners of his eyes. "I'm Gotham's top cop, but I was powerless to save my son."

Barbara's lip quivered. "On the news, they're talking of an official holiday; parades with floats, balloons and marching bands; paid time off for city employees; dedicating a park to him. Is it true?"

He couldn't look at her. "Yes."

"Damn it, Jim, damn it!" She slammed a fist onto a cardboard box. The flaps crumpled under the force. "I never liked you working with some crazy guy dressed like a bat, but he watched over you, over us. Did he ever inform you how he perched outside our house when I though you had been killed?"

He gazed at her, not so much surprised that Batman was here making certain his family was safe, but flabbergasted that she was aware of it. His mysterious partner was only seen when he wanted to be.

"He saved our family. Tell the truth, Jim."

"I… I can't," he struggled. "Every criminal Dent put away would be back on the street. If you think it's bad now, imagine how depraved Gotham will become if that happens."

Barbara stepped closer and grasped his forearm. "Then let's go far away from Gotham."

Jim ran a tired hand through his graying hair. "We've been over this before. It's not that simple."

"Only because you don't want it to be simple," Barbara retorted. "My father always has an open position with his company waiting for you. When he retires in a few years, it will be yours to run."

How many times had they had this conversation since they got married? How many more times had they had it since that horrific night? "What do I know about the construction business?"

"You could learn it if you wanted to." When he didn't reply immediately, she laughed – the empty and emotionless sound echoed in the basement. "You'd rather live in a city that celebrates the man who almost killed our son." She stormed up the stairs leaving her husband alone and shamefaced.

Jim slept in his clothes on the couch that night. The couple barely spoke until Barbara read in the paper a few days later her husband was to give a speech in honor of Dent. Another argument in the basement resulted. He realized it wouldn't be the last on the subject.

Garcia's efforts to honor a fallen hero culminated in the first Harvey Dent Day, an annual holiday to be observed on July 18. The mayor signed it into law in a lavish ceremony on the steps of city hall. The speeches that followed blended together into the background. Gordon stared at the large portrait of Dent off to his side and wondered where his partner was at this very moment.

Someone nudged his ribs. "You're up, Jim."

Amid the blinding flashes of cameras, Commissioner James Gordon took his place behind the podium. He glanced out over the throng of reporters and spectators, his chest tightening with the strain of the deception. He pulled the speech from his inner jacket pocket.

"I believed in Harvey Dent. I still do. He was a shining light in a dark city, giving us hope." Gordon's own words sounded hollow to his ears as he read the handwriting and he wondered why no one else heard it. At the end, the crowd cheered.

One day, he would tell the truth.

* * *

As the second anniversary of Harvey Dent's death drew near, the state legislature overwhelmingly passed the Dent Act in an unprecedented display of bipartisanship. The governor planned to sign the bill into law during a ceremony outside the Gotham City Courthouse on July 18. Once again, Commissioner Gordon was expected to be present at the event and give a speech.

Security was of the upmost concern.

Lawmakers and victim advocates claimed a victory for the justice system and the common man. In Gotham, a city that suffered two sieges in a year's span, residents applauded. The law made sense. Or at least that was the slogan. Budgets and nerves were exhausted from the attack on the Narrows and the Joker's reign of terror. Only defense attorneys dared protest the Dent Act in public.

Vocal opposition arose across the country. It extended the clout of the RICO Act, giving authorities the power to arrest anyone associated with criminal activity and lock them behind bars without trial. Assets could be seized without a warrant. Friends, relatives, business acquaintances… they were all fair game. It gave the prison board muscle to revoke parole for any inmate deemed unfit and hold them indefinitely.

Critics called it a blow to the Constitution of the United States of America and vowed to fight it all the way to the Supreme Court. Civil Rights activists lambasted the Dent Act as a way to strip Americans of their rights and to enforce a police state. Threats loomed against specific individuals and groups sponsoring the bill.

Commissioner Gordon ignored the politics behind the new law and focused on doing his job – keeping Gotham safe. He would use any tool available to bring down criminal syndicates, although he was proud of the fact his police force managed to tame the violence of Maroni's disappearance without it. Good old fashioned detective work got the job done.

All the Dent Act really accomplished was sending mob bosses fleeing to other cities. It didn't solve the root of the problem; only forced it onto others. When the yearly crime statistics were released, Gordon expected to see the numbers surge in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.

While the men and women under his command debated the pros and cons, the most vocal dissent in Jim's life came from his wife. When the media picked up on the story, Barbara ripped into her husband. It wasn't too often since they rarely crossed paths. For the past month, Gordon had been tied up in meetings with state and federal law enforcement, coordinating security for the signing ceremony. The stakes were high; it had to go off without a hitch.

He caught a few hours sleep here and there. Jim usually arrived home after his family went to bed and left before they woke. He took to sleeping on the couch downstairs so as not to disturb them. The nightmares his wife and children suffered either lessened with time or else he slept so soundly he didn't hear them. Jim prayed it wasn't the latter.

When he pulled to a stop outside the house, Jim lifted his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. The left light bulb on the porch was burned out and he snickered, feeling a bit of déjà vu. He forced his weary body from the driver's seat, across the front yard and past the front door.

A plate loaded with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy and green beans greeted him inside the refrigerator. Jim pulled off the plastic wrap and stuck it in the microwave. Numbers ticked down ending with a satisfying beep.

Jim devoured the meal at the kitchen table. He took it as a positive sign that Barbara still left him dinner in the fridge. Scooping up the last bite of potatoes, a newspaper slammed into the table. Jim jumped, dropped the fork and spun in the chair.

"Do you really support this?"

Jim never heard Barbara approach. He looked from his wife to the headline declaring the passage of the Dent Act. "It gives the police force the tools to stop the crime lords."

"Don't feed me that load of bull," she spat. "I'm not a reporter out for a scoop."

He propped his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands. "I… I don't know."

"That shouldn't be your answer," she replied, sliding into the seat next to him, "but at least you're finally being open with me." She reached out and took his hand. Her voice softened. "There was a time when you were the rare honest cop in a city swarming with corruption. I gave you hell for it occasionally–"

His moustache twitched as he raised an eyebrow.

"All right," she chuckled, "I gave you hell for it a lot, but I was proud of you, Jim."

"Was proud?" he asked.

"Now you're neck deep in a cover-up and advocating a law that strips us of our rights."

"I don't advocate anything of the sort."

"Maybe not, but in three days you'll be standing on a stage with the governor and the mayor, defending the strengths of a murderer who threatened our son." Barbara fought back the tears that always formed at the mention of Dent. "This is destroying you, Jim. It's destroying us."

The words dug deep into his flesh. He turned his head and stared at the fork on the plate.

Barbara withdrew her hand. "Kyle from a few doors down asked Jimmy if he wanted to go the parade with his family," she said after a long silence. "Jimmy told him he was grounded for playing too many video games. Our son is fibbing to his friends to protect your lie. This isn't healthy."

Jim stood and carried the plate to the sink. "I'm doing the best I can."

"The lies keep coming."

The dishes clanked on the counter. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Barbara rose from the chair and moved to stand next to her husband. "It means exactly what I said. Put an end to this, Jim. Stop the damn deception and tell the truth."

"How many times do we have to go over this?"

"As many times as it takes until you give me a decent answer," she snapped, her voice rising in pitch. Their arguments were no longer relegated to the basement. "You're turning into the very same corrupt cop you fought against."

"You're overreacting, Barb."

"Overreacting?" she repeated. "What happens when you arrest some thug and he accuses you of taking bribes? We'll be thrown in jail and the kids will be placed in foster care until my parents get here."

"That's not going to happen."

"That's exactly what's going to happen with this damned Dent Act in place." It was the first time she said the name since that night. They both realized it. Barbara clutched the countertop's edge, her knuckles turning white. "Don't recite that crap about it not happening. I would have said the same thing two years ago if someone told me my husband would be drowning in a conspiracy he instigated."

She may as well have punched him in the stomach. Jim ran a shaky hand through his hair and turned away from her penetrating eyes. How was he supposed to respond? He knew damn well he compromised his moral compass when he agreed to vilify the man who saved his son's life.

Jim was all too aware of how he treaded the slippery slope of his predecessors. From the moment Garcia promoted him to commissioner, he walked a tightrope between light and dark, doing what needed to be done to protect his city, fearing he would trip at any second and there would be no net below to break the fall. Not a day ticked by when Jim Gordon looked at his reflection in the mirror and wondered how this became his life.

"You always do this," Barbara said, breaking the silence. "You shut down and won't talk to me."

The anger, the fear, the disappointment buried deep inside Jim clawed its way up. "What do you want me to say, Barbara? I'm not proud of what I've done. Giving a damn speech every year hailing Dent a hero makes me sick to my stomach. I hate that I gave the order to hunt Batman down. Is that what you want to hear?" She took a step back from him. "Well, is it?"

A gasp from the hall startled both of them. The wide eyes and blond hair retreated up the steps.

Barbara shot her husband a furious glare and took off after their son. Aghast, Jim stumbled backward against the refrigerator and slumped to the floor. Jimmy heard them.

_Heard me._

His fatherly instinct screamed at him to go upstairs, but his limbs refused to cooperate. The wider the chasm grew, the more difficult it became to make the jump. The disgraced commissioner sat on the floor, at a loss on how to repair his broken family. That wasn't entirely true. He could fix it.

The next morning, Gordon arrived at the MCU, exchanged a few pleasantries with his staff and headed straight to his desk. He dug a note pad out from under a stack of files, grabbed a pen and began writing.

_We are here today to pay homage to a man who brought hope to our city, but the truth is that we are honoring the wrong man. Harvey Dent was not a shining knight. He was a murderer who nearly killed my son. The true hero of Gotham is not a white knight, but a dark knight. Batman saved my son. We should be honoring his sacrifices today._

Gordon started at the scrawl long and hard. As he did, the growl echoed in his ears, "The Joker cannot win." With a heavy heart and Barbara's disappointment thick in the air, he scratched the words out, tore the sheet loose and fed it to the shredder.

One day, he would tell the truth.

* * *

As the third anniversary of Harvey Dent's death neared, the effects of the Dent Act were beginning to resonate across Gotham. Major players in the underworld were apprehended. Shipments of illegal weapons and narcotics were seized. Violent crimes became fewer.

The city didn't clean up overnight. Mob bosses were out to prove they were untouchable. Corrupt cops still needed to be weeded out of the department. But for the first time in decades, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Gotham could be saved.

With the progress, Commissioner Gordon's job adopted more routine hours. His assistant scheduled dinner at home once a week for her boss. He made it to a few of his son's junior high basketball games before the season ended. Barbara even looked at him with glowing approval when he unexpectedly attended their daughter's ballet recital.

Spending time with them – being there – resulted in Jim's relationship with his family improving. The strain from the nightmare and the deception lessened.

Until Harvey Dent Day rolled around.

The atmosphere in the Gordon house grew downright chilly mid-July. Barbara turned a cold shoulder to her husband, shooting him incensed glares when the children weren't present. The sniping picked up.

So when Jim arrived home at a decent hour on July 15, a tense and silent dinner awaited. His wife and children peered up from their plates with thinly veiled distrust. After what seemed an eternity, the meal ended and he tried to help Barbara with the dishes. She yanked them from his grip without a word and he wisely chose to leave her alone in the kitchen.

The rhythmic thumping of a basketball drew Jim outside. His son dribbled the ball between two hands on the driveway, bouncing it off the garage door to perfect his passing skills.

"Are you up for a game against your old man?"

"Can't," Jimmy kept his eyes trained on the orange ball, "Need to practice my drills."

"Oh, come on," Jim prodded. "There's no better practice than some one-on-one."

The thumping stopped. His son tucked the basketball between his waist and his elbow. "I'm done." Jimmy pushed past his father and disappeared through the back door.

Jim sighed. He settled on the back steps until the sky darkened with deepening hues of orange and pink, feeling like an intruder in his own home. Another long sigh escaped his lips and he entered the den of the sleeping tigers, praying he wouldn't provoke them.

The kitchen was empty, so he poked his head into the living room. Babs sat on the floor watching TV by herself. He assumed Barbara and Jimmy were upstairs. Jim quietly made his way to the couch.

A teenage girl with glittering makeup strutted across the screen wearing a low cut top and skin tight jeans that scarcely covered her butt. Jim shook his head. He'd seen swimsuits that covered more skin. The girl met up with her friends at the mall after school.

He leaned forward and squinted. Was that boy wearing eyeliner?

One of the girls turned and Jim's eyebrows slammed into his hairline. Was that a thong peeking out of the barely-there shorts? This is what Babs watched?

"Your mother lets you watch this crap?"

"Yeah, sometimes she watches it with me," his daughter replied, peering over her shoulder to give him a look that said, 'Duh, where have you been?'

Jim had been on the receiving end of that same expression from his wife far too often. Seeing it echoed on his little girl's face stunned him into silence. When he finally recovered his ability to speak, the credits began rolling and were squished to the bottom of the screen. Babs grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. She stopped on a photo of Harvey Dent.

Babs pulled her knees to her chest, her body trembling.

Jim scrambled for the remote and turned the newscast off. He sat next to his daughter on the floor and wrapped an arm around her. "Hey, it's okay, honey."

Keeping her head nestled in his shoulder, she muttered, "Why do we have to lie about Mr. Dent?"

Hearing her calling him 'Mr. Dent' made his blood turn to ice. He wondered if Babs called him that in front of her mother. It suddenly dawned on Jim that he had never really spoken to his children about that night. Everything happened so quickly, even though it played out in slow motion whenever he thought about it.

After pulling his son to safety and making sure they were all right, he checked on Batman and called the order in. He then took his family home. When morning rolled around, he explained what they needed to say before their official statements were recorded. Still in shock, they went along without question.

From that day onward, the kids spoke to their mom about it, but never their dad. As Barbara pointed out, he was never there for them to talk to. Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I know it's hard to understand, sweetheart, but it's something we have to do."

"Why?" she sniffed.

Jim sighed. How could he explain it? Feeling eyes boring into his back, he glanced behind. Jimmy lurked in the space between the living room and kitchen, waiting to hear the answer. "Harvey, Mr. Dent, did a lot of good things for our city. He helped make certain the bad guys we arrested went to jail so they wouldn't hurt more people."

"But Mr. Dent tried to… hurt… hurt Jimmy," she sniffed again, "just like a bad guy."

"I know, Babs, and it makes me angry to think about it," Jim replied, "but Mr. Dent made a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. He died because of it. We shouldn't remember him for his failings." He let go of her and forced a smile. "If you did one terrible thing, would you want people to remember you for it or all the good stuff you've done?"

She pursed her lips together. "All the good stuff."

"Me, too," he winked.

Babs gave him a quick hug. "Thanks, Dad."

She bounded up the stairs with her usual cheerful disposition. Jim watched the graceful movements, a proud smile forming on his lips, before turning to the kitchen in hopes of catching his son for a moment. An empty space greeted his eyes. Jimmy slipped away without a peep. He hoped the explanation helped his son as much as his daughter, but doubted it.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when the boy used to ask his dad about Batman. The questions slowly dwindled when the masked man didn't appear again. Branding his son's hero a murderer created the biggest rift between father and son. Jim often speculated that single decision left more of an impact on the boy than being held at gunpoint by a man with half his faced burned off.

Settling into the cushions, he wondered if his son would every truly forgive him. He also wondered if he meant what he said about Harvey. Could he forgive the man who threatened his son's life? Could Jim forgive the partner who put him in this position, who saddled this burden on his family?

If James Gordon didn't have it in his heart to forgive, how could he expect his son to?

Commissioner Gordon struggled with the concerns for three days, until he took his place on the stage before a gathering of the city's elite citizens. Reciting the words scribbled on the note cards almost out of habit, his thoughts drifted to the conversation with his daughter. He recalled the intrepid district attorney who prosecuted the scum of Gotham, the champion who turned himself in to protect the Batman and the smiling blond eager to return home to his lady love.

Gordon firmed his resolve. He had to forgive and press forth or else all of Harvey and Batman's sacrifices would be for nothing. Summoning every drop of willpower in his body, he concluded the speech with more conviction than he ever knew he possessed.

"Harvey was – and still is – our White Knight. I believe in Harvey Dent."

A polite round of applause commenced. Gordon stepped from behind the podium to shake hands with Mayor Garcia and other prominent officials for the media. In the midst of the political maneuvering, one thought niggled its way out from the farthest reaches of his mind. Did it have to be this way?

If he had listened to Harvey – fought corruption his way – would all this have happened?

The burden atop Jim's shoulders grew heavier and he would have sworn a few more gray hairs sprouted.

One day, he would tell the truth, but today was not that day.

* * *

On the fourth anniversary of Harvey Dent's death, Barbara and the kids left for a drive in the country. She asked him to go with, but his duties as commissioner took precedence. Jim lounged on the couch, only half paying attention to the baseball game on the TV. The doorbell shattered the tranquility and forced him to rise with a grunt.

"Hey, Jim, how's it going?" Gerry greeted. "Thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," he pushed the screen door open, "Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?"

Gerry peered over his friend's shoulder toward the TV. "A beer would be good."

"It's the middle of the afternoon." Jim arched an eyebrow. "And aren't you on duty?"

"We're two guys watching a ballgame together," Gerry replied, "Beer is a requirement. And nope, I don't go on until tonight." Jim chuckled and instantly regretted it. His bruised ribs throbbed in retaliation. "You sit down, boss, I know where the fridge is."

Gerry returned, handing a can to Jim. "Kinda quiet around here," Gerry observed, plopping on the recliner. He snapped the tab open and took a drink. "Where are Barbara and the kids?"

"All right, cut the crap, Ger, who sent you to play nursemaid?"

"No one," Gerry replied.

Jim stared at him with a look usually reserved for his children's misguided exploits.

"Okay, okay, don't give me the fatherly reprimand. Barbara called Linda this morning. You know how wives are. Linda's all worried." He paused, chewing his lower lip. "To tell the truth, so am I. You take a bullet to the vest the other day and Barbara goes off on an outing, leaving you alone? I don't need to be a cop to smell something fishy."

Jim sighed. While raiding an illegal arms shipment arriving at the docks, a firefight erupted and he took a hit to his side. The Kevlar stopped the slug, resulting in a large patch of bluish-purple skin and battered ribs. His wife paused the cold shoulder long enough to show some concern, which led to an exchange of harsh words followed by a round of the silent treatment. "It's nothing. She just gets upset this time of year. It's a bad reminder of the kidnapping." He almost snickered at the understatement.

"Sure, I get it." Detective Gerry Stephens could be called many things – bold, brash and stubborn usually sprouted to mind quickly – but he was not timid. Yet here he sat fiddling with the beer can in his grasp, glancing sideways at his boss while absently watching the ballgame.

"How long have we known each other?" Jim asked. "Spit it out, Ger."

Gerry scooted forward and set the can on the coffee table. Mumbling under his breath, he abruptly grabbed for the drink and slid a magazine underneath. Jim chuckled again – Barbara lectured him about coasters, too – and again regretted the action. The commissioner shifted trying to ease the pain.

"Look, we all understand how terrible that night must have been for her and the kids," Gerry began, "and how Harvey Dent Day stirs up bad memories, but she won't even say Dent's name. Even Linda has commented on it. If I didn't know the bat went, well, batshit, I'd say Harvey abducted them."

Jim froze. Could it be that obvious? No, he rationalized, he was simply paranoid. Gingerly massaging his aching side, the scene at the docks replayed in his mind. If Jim Gordon died, the truth died with him. His wife and children would be burdened with a horror no official record backed up. There would be no one to clear an innocent man's name.

With the weight of the world bearing down on him, the commissioner chose his next words carefully, doing his best to sound incredulous. "Harvey? What motive would he even have?"

"Getting your face half burned off is reasonable grounds for going nuts." Gerry rested his elbows on his knees. "As for the Batman, a guy who dresses up like a bat and pummels criminals has got to have a few screws loose, but his actions don't add up."

"How so?"

"Come on, Jim, it's been four years. You must have analyzed every angle by now, questioning why he went off the deep end. The bat swooped into a hostage situation that would have otherwise been a massacre. He saved the lives of each and every one of those hostages, along with the lives of our SWAT guys. He even resisted killing the clown. Then what does he do next? Goes abducts Harvey Dent and your family? Doesn't make sense."

Yearning to do something, anything, to keep busy and to calm the swirling emotions inside, Jim pulled his glasses off and cleaned the lenses on his shirt. When he slid the frames on his nose, he witnessed the detective's eyes narrowing.

"Now it's my turn to play the 'how long have we known each other' card," Gerry said. He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "What really happened that night, Jim?"

Barbara argued her husband didn't want to discuss it, but in reality, she didn't want to understand the situation. His partner deserted him and the city. With a heavy sigh, Jim surrendered to the pressure. He needed to talk to someone, even if it wasn't fair to shift the burden to an unsuspecting friend. "It's just like you said, Gerry," he confessed, "Harvey kidnapped them and nearly killed my son. Batman saved Jimmy."

Gerry remained silent and Jim spilled the details.

"My God, Jim," Gerry finally said. Sinking deeper into the chair, the color drained from his features. "You mean Barbara and the kids have been playing along with this?" He ran a hand over his face. "They watch Gotham honor a man who terrorized them every year?"

Jim nodded, not trusting his voice, his cheeks growing warm.

"How could you do it to them?"

"It wasn't easy, but it seemed the right decision – the only decision – at the time," Jim offered weakly.

Gerry picked up on the hesitation. "Do you still think it was the right thing to do?"

"I… I don't know," Jim admitted, "I really don't know."

"If this ever gets out, you'll be crucified. Forget those cases Dent worked on, you'll be facing a board of inquiry. Every GCPD investigation will be considered tainted. If you're lucky, you'll just lose your job. Damn it, Jim, a zealous prosecutor out to make a name for himself could send you to prison." Gerry pounded a fist on the arm cushion. "Did you ever stop to think about the repercussions?"

"Well, no, not exactly." Jim didn't allow himself to get that far ahead.

Gerry arched an eyebrow. "Do you know who was under the mask?"

"No. Does it make a difference?" Jim never wanted to know. It was safer for both of them that way. Though as years passed, he couldn't help but wonder about the Batman's identity from time to time, curious what became of the man.

"The tank, the body armor, the high-tech gadgets… whoever financed him has a lot of resources. For whatever reason, the bat trusted you. You'd better pray his benefactor will look out for you when the crap hits the fan – and it will hit the fan one day. It may be your only salvation. There's no way to keep this swept under the rug forever."

A small part of Jim wished that day would come. Gerry was right. Mike Engel continued snooping around. The full extent of the burns Harvey suffered was supposed to be kept quiet, but police and hospital staff talked to the tabloids after the district attorney's death. Two-Face Harvey, the nickname for him at Internal Affairs, caught on with the sordid underbelly of the news world.

One day, whether prepared or not, the truth would be exposed.

Jim adjusted his position on the cushions. Pain coursed through his body. When it subsided, he stared his friend in the eyes. "You have to promise me, Gerry, not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Nice moral dilemma to saddle me with, boss."

"If I go down, I won't mention your name. You have my word on it."

"Look, I'm not worried about that, Jim," Gerry said. "You've always had my back. I'm worried about you. If anyone ever told me you'd be headlining a conspiracy, I'd tell 'em they were nuts."

Jim snorted and immediately grimaced. He massaged his side. "Now you sound like Barbara."

"You should listen to her. It's obvious you don't have the brains in the family," Gerry quipped. "Hell, I thought the bat had more sense, too." He crinkled his brow. "Why tell me all this now?"

"After the close call the other day, I realized someone else needs to know what went down that night," Jim replied. "If something happens to me, you can reveal the truth when the time is right."

"And I supposed to know when this miraculous moment occurs? Will it knock on the door?"

"Don't make me laugh," Jim admonished, struggling not to chuckle at his friend's amused expression. "Since I don't have any brains, you should recognize it better than me."

Gerry shook his head and they both turned their attention to the ballgame. An uncomfortable quiet enveloped the living room. When the ump called the final out of the ninth inning, the detective bade goodbye under the excuse of getting ready for work that evening. Jim sensed he was eager to flee the discovery.

A few hours later, as the sun dipped lower in the horizon, Gerry swung by to pick his boss up. They drove to the Harvey Dent Day celebrations at John Daggett's estate in silence. The commissioner took his place on the platform next to Mayor Garcia. Speeches followed and Gordon's moment arrived.

Gerry stood amid the crowd on security detail and Jim felt like shrinking under his friend's disillusioned frown. The resolve from the previous year waned and his words once again sounded hollow to his ears.

"I believe in Harvey Dent."

One day, he would tell the truth.

* * *

On the fifth anniversary of Harvey Dent's death, Jim Gordon found himself more isolated than usual. His lone confidant in the Gotham PD transferred to Chicago two months prior. Gerry cited a better position with better pay and benefits, but Jim knew the reality. The pressure of his boss' deception grew too much to bear.

Barbara and the kids packed up the car and headed to Cleveland to visit her parents for the week. He didn't like them making the day-long drive without him, but getting away from his obligations as commissioner wasn't an option. More accurately, getting out of the speech wasn't an option.

Rattling around in the empty house for that short time made him edgy. It always seemed so crowded with the four of them bumping elbows, running out of hot water in the mornings and him tripping over the kids' books and electronics. He and Barbara even discussed moving to a larger house, maybe even out in the suburbs with better schools and a large yard.

Now it felt like a cavern, his footsteps and the clanking of his plate echoing in the vastness. Jim missed the voices, the smell of Barbara's cooking, the music and TV playing in the background, and the glowing lights from the cell phones, mp3 players and whatever else they tinkered with.

The next two anniversaries of Harvey Dent's death followed a similar pattern.

During the course of those years, Jim managed to be home more often. He volunteered with Jimmy's basketball camps and went to his high school games. He accompanied his daughter to ballet and then judo classes when her interests changed. When his son got his driver's permit, he taught him to drive. More gray hairs sprouted.

From the time Jimmy was born, Barbara always grumbled he wasn't here enough. Now he was here, spending quality time with his family, being a husband and a father. He thought his family could finally move past that horrendous night, but the tension crept back in. The reason he managed to be home – the Dent Act – was never far from the surface, simmering toward the boiling point.

So it became an annual ritual for Barbara and the kids to visit her parents.

Jim breathed a sigh of relief every year when they returned. He dreaded the day they'd stay in Cleveland.

As the eight anniversary of Harvey Dent's death neared, the Gordon marriage had deteriorated to the point he began sleeping on the couch every night, going so far as to move his clothes out of their room. Discussions of purchasing a larger house ceased. Arguments they used to try hiding from the kids were now fought out in the open. The commissioner chose to spend late evenings at the MCU simply to avoid the tension at home.

Longing to make one more attempt at mending his broken family, Jim left the station early, determined to take them out to dinner after they finished packing. Climbing the porch steps, he mentally cursed forgetting to stop by the store to pick up light bulbs like his wife asked. That pesky front porch light burned out again and needed replacing. He decided to get them on the way home from the restaurant.

Quiet greeted him as he entered the door. Jim poked his head into the different rooms on the first floor and then headed upstairs. His son's suitcase stood upright by the entrance into his bedroom. He quirked an eyebrow; Jimmy's prized baseball cards were not on the dresser.

He went to his daughter's bedroom next. Her suitcase lay on the floor by the small desk. Jim noticed the blank space on the wall where a poster of her current heartthrob used to be pinned. The worn, stuffed teddy bear – her most cherished possession – was missing from the bed. He crinkled his forehead, a sense of foreboding taking residence in the pit of his stomach.

Jim slowly proceeded down the hallway, his chest tightening, and stopped at Barbara's door. Not wanting to startle her and at a loss for words, he settled for clearing his throat.

"I can't do this anymore."

The hoarse whisper sent a cold shiver tracing along his spine.

His eyes focused on the two suitcases lying open on top of the mattress. Barbara moved back and forth between the bed and dresser, pulling garments from the drawers and placing them inside the luggage. She never raised her head to look at the estranged husband she shared a house with. For the past three years, the scene played out like clockwork, but this time something was different.

This time, Jim realized, she wasn't coming back.

The framed photos on the bureau were gone, as was her jewelry box. She emptied each of the drawers and moved to the closet. Barbara selected specific articles of clothing and tucked them in a garment bag Jim only just became aware of.

"Barbara…"

"I can't do this anymore, Jim." She turned to face him, her eyes red and tears trickling down her cheeks. "My parents have room for us at their place until I find a job. They're always thrilled to see the kids. Jimmy is already looking at colleges in Ohio. This way, he qualifies for in-state tuition."

"W-where are the kids now?"

"Babs is at a movie with Ashley." She sniffed and wiped the tears away. "Jimmy is over at Kyle's house. They're both grabbing dinner out tonight. I've already discussed the situation with them. They're not happy about leaving their friends; otherwise, they're okay with it."

"Barbara…" he struggled again, but a lump formed in his throat.

"Don't act surprised. This was a long time coming. We both know it."

Jim lowered his gaze, unable to look her in the eye. Since the night, that appalling night that changed everything, he feared the day she would leave him, dreaded the day he'd come home and his kids were gone. He didn't need to ask why she made the decision or when. Only one question haunted him. "Why now?"

Barbara twisted the clothes in her hands, took a deep breath and set them down. "I love you, Jim, that's why. I waited for a glimmer of the idealistic young man I fell in love with to shine through the deceit. I waited for the honest cop I married to come back to me. I waited, Jim, God knows I waited for you to sum up the courage to do the right thing. And for eight years, you disappointed me." She reached for the tissues on the nightstand and blew her nose.

Smothering guilt squeezed his chest in a viselike grip.

"You sacrificed your family, your moral principles and your own happiness for this city. Gotham cost you your soul, Jim. Was the price worth it?" She finished with the garment bag and zipped it close.

_No!_ He wanted to scream the declaration at the top of his lungs.

"All these years, I never understood why you stuck so firmly to protecting him. Would it have been so terrible for the citizens to learn the truth? Don't they deserve that much? Don't we deserve that much?"

Jim regressed into commissioner mode and the standard answer he clung to. "Every criminal Harvey put away would have grounds to appeal their sentences."

"So?" Barbara countered. "If the evidence was solid enough to convict the first time, no judge – no decent judge anyway – would overturn the verdict. And so what if they went free?"

"These are career criminals we're talking about, Barbara, not shoplifters and purse snatchers."

"Exactly," she replied. "Career criminals always go back to the lives they're familiar with. The police would get another chance to arrest them – a chance to do it right, without the oppressive laws. You didn't have to make this sacrifice, Jim. You and Batman should have been the symbols of hope. As the police commissioner, you were the hero Gotham needed, the hero it deserved."

He flinched as his own words from so long ago were thrown in his face.

Barbara zipped up the larger of the two suitcases. "Jimmy used to be so proud his dad caught the bad guys," the trace of a smile faded, "You may still catch the bad guys, Jim, but it's not the same."

She hoisted the suitcase off the bed and Jim moved to help her. "I've got it," he said. When she didn't let go of the handle, he pleaded with her. "Please, let me do this one thing."

Barbara's fingers slipped away. "You can take it downstairs." He hauled the piece of luggage to the living room and rejoined her. "I'll send for the rest of the stuff later, once we get our own place."

Jim nodded, lingering in the doorway, not knowing what to do or what to say.

She finished with the second suitcase and he stepped into the room to take it. He didn't see where the manila envelope came from, only that she held it to his chest. Barbara's hand found its way to his cheek and she caressed it with her thumb.

"We're leaving in the morning. Will you be here to say goodbye to the kids?"

"Of course." Tears stung Jim's eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Barbara. I'm so sorry."

"I know, Jim. So am I."

He picked up suitcase and wandered down the staircase in a daze. Slumping onto the couch, he opened the envelope flap and pulled out the divorce papers. Needing to escape the suffocating air, he made for the car. Jim drove around the city for what seemed like hours, before ending up at the MCU building.

Drifting up the stairs to the roof, he stared up at the stars glittering in the sky. More time passed and his eyes locked onto the remnants of the bat signal. The shards of glass were cleaned up years ago, but Jim refused to let anyone touch the spotlight.

His colleagues thought he kept it as a reminder of a betrayal, so he would not repeat the same error. They weren't entirely wrong. It was a reminder of a betrayal – a betrayal he made to his family, his friends and his city. Jim Gordon ran his fingers along the cool metal, wishing he could talk to his partner just one more time.

He wanted to ask Batman if it was worth it; if he held any regrets.

Jim didn't even know if the man under the mask was still alive. The last he saw of Batman, he plunged off a warehouse after taking a point-blank shot to the abdomen. Did the armor stop the bullet or did it pierce flesh? What injuries did he suffer battling the Joker?

The last conversation rang in his ears, crystal clear, as if the bat were standing next to him.

"_You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I can do those things, because I'm not a hero, not like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be."_

"_No, no, no, you can't. You're not."_

"_I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be. Call it in."_

"Damn it, you were a hero, are a hero," he muttered, wishing he had the courage to end this debacle before it started. "I should never have agreed to his, never let it go this far."

Jim Gordon sank to the ground, grieving the family he lost and the friend he turned his back on. When he regained control over his emotions, he took refuge in his office. As the first streaks of morning light peeked through the widows, he headed for his car, ignoring everyone in his path.

After he said goodbye to his children and promised to visit them in Cleveland soon, he entered the empty house that would never again be filled with laughter, squabbles, the aromas of baking cookies, and the energy of bustling life. He plopped on the couch, the deafening silence enveloping him, and accepted the punishment he so richly deserved.

He did this to his family, no one else.

The next day, Gordon returned to work and reaffirmed his decision. Pulling out a pen and pad of paper, he started writing.

_The Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent. He saved my boy and then took the blame for Harvey's appalling crimes so that I could – to my shame – build a lie around this fallen idol. I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child, but I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth and it is time for me to resign._

He kept on writing, spilling all the secrets and lies he kept for eight years. When he finished, he didn't feed the sheets of paper to the shredder. He folded them and tucked the bundle into the safety of his inside jacket pocket.

Tonight, at Wayne Manor, Jim Gordon will tell the truth.

**The End**


End file.
